


In a Mess of Emotion

by GoldGlazedFluff



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: (i guess), Berkut is kinda just angry, Fernand is a Good Bean, Friends to Lovers, Kinda, Love Triangles, M/M, Out of Character, a lot going on, but not really, not much smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 09:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14186394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldGlazedFluff/pseuds/GoldGlazedFluff
Summary: Berkut thought he had finally found someone he could make his partner in the form of the delicate Rinea.Fernand entered Berkut's life years ago with ideas of his own.Based on the pairing, you can guess which one gets their way ;)





	In a Mess of Emotion

To say that Berkut is angry is an understatement. The internal hatred that is simmering just under his cool complexion is rival to that of the burning hells. He is so raging that he genuinely feels as if his vision is turning red from the amount of seething hatred he has for the man sitting beside him at the table.

The man in question is currently holding a pleasant conversation with the object of Berkut’s fancies - Lady Rinea: a young girl from a family thought to have been long since defected with their proximity to the border but have managed to stay loyal to the throne. While this could easily be a ploy, she is intelligent unlike the rest of the girls that have tried to win Berkut over, and even has offered to spar with him as a playful tease. Rinea has a soft side and treats her peers well instead of acting like she owns everything she touches- she is modest, which is incredible to see in a noble. She also knows how to have fun, but also how take care of herself since it must take hours for her to highlight her delicate beauty with powder and…whatever other things women use…

Berkut growls as he casts away futile thoughts on the names for various procedures of make-up, to focus in on the grave situation he himself had willingly initiated. For some reason, he had the idea that it would be wise to allow Rinea to meet Berkut’s very close friend, Fernand. Fernand: the one who is pleasantly smiling in a gently manner towards the young Lady, laughing appropriately when she quips an appropriate joke and generally being a complete ass-lick. Berkut shifts his focus away from the two getting along, over to his uncle at the head of the table. 

“The food is wonderful your Excellency. I am equally as pleased with the lively atmosphere around the table. I believe it is safe to say that this dinner has been a success-”  
“What is that you are babbling about Berkut?” Rudolf turns from listening to Desaix and the young prince shakes his head in growing impatience.

“It matters not. Though if all is well rounded off, I shall retire to my room for the night.” Berkut tries to push his escape closer, even though he has not really made a dent in the berry pudding before him.

“Should you not escort Rinea to her chambers, as a gentleman should?” Rudolf threatens lowly and Berkut slouches slightly- might as well be marginally more comfortable while he waits for the slim woman to somehow finish the whole slice of pudding, plus cream. 

By the time she finishes, his backside has gone numb and his back is stiff. He wants to stretch out, wants to move, but Rinea is still smiling and conversing with his former-friend-now-rival Fernand. Eventually, he physically and emotionally cannot take anymore and stands from the table. The table falls silent at the sudden action and Berkut locks gazes with Rinea. 

“Shall I escort you to your room?” He asks with all the insistent politeness he can manage. The woman seems to ponder the question for longer than is needed, spreading out the silence until Berkut can feel the sets of eyes on him begin to burn into his skull. 

He’s suddenly uncomfortable. He can’t solve this with combat like how he would usually solve his problems. He needs his lance, something reliable to ground him but that would just be weird to have at a dinner setting, but there’s nothing else now that he can’t trust his closest friend not to steal his future bride from him and now he knows he is thinking too much and there isn’t time or the space to sort out something rational to do when his mind is in this mess-!

“I think I will discuss further with Fernand and he can escort me to my room when I am ready.” Rinea happily chimes, completely oblivious to the implications of such an action, and in front of his father-!

“Of course milady, I am very much enjoying our conversation.” Fernand replies with all the elegance someone in line to the throne should have. 

Berkut bows incrementally- not trusting himself to say anything lest it come out as a shout or a swear. His anger and general discomfort threatens to spill over into physical action. He needs to punch something harmless…

He doesn’t need a candle holder to find the training room, having come here on nights where sleep evades him for whatever reason it happens to be. He enters the room, the loud creak of the solid oak door still not having been oiled, loudly announcing his presence to anyone in the room. Though as he expects, nobody is in here at this late hour, giving him ample space for his mind to wander.

Berkut thinks back on past times he has come here when sleeping is no longer an option. He collects a training lance as he easily recalls the faces that haunt his dreams, Berkut learning to steel himself against watching his enemies die to his hand. However, what rouses him from his slumber are the cries of his allies, begging for someone to go home to their families and give them a good life, or to at least tell them they are loved. Berkut can’t do either of those things. He is heir to the throne in an unstable country, and so he cannot bend for one request, and must be prepared to see worse than what he already has atop his horse.

Berkut strikes the practice dummy repeatedly, fueling his strikes with the stored rage he accumulated throughout the evening of pretentious ass-licking from all but the King himself, continuing his internal thoughts instead of focusing on precise strikes. Reliving the moments were he can seen death, even able to recall the cold, icy tendrils sneaking upon himself just before a sage reached him. For a child that has not even become an adult, Berkut would say that he has suffered much more than is fair for a seventeen year-old, but he has people he can take solace in- or rather, he did.

The two people he can trust are gone! One because of the other!

Berkut smashes the wooden lance against the dummy, the wood splintering and ruining the lance but it has helped Berkut quell his rage. He has broken something, not Fernand’s neck like he wishes, but something. Perhaps he could have a civil conversation with his supposed ‘Best Friend’ as to why he thinks it is acceptable to steal from someone he is meant to be courting for future marriage.

Alternatively, he could hunt the dastard down and teach him a lesson more physically. 

Either of the routes need him outside the training hall, so he goes, leaving the mess for someone else to clear up and heading towards Rinea’s chambers where he knows the two will eventually end up, if not already there. Berkut tries to come up with ways he can sound good in front of Rinea who will inevitability be there too, but nothing comes to mind because Berkut is the one with the issue, Fernand probably just feels like he is entertaining a lady. 

He approaches Rinea’s room at a loss of what to say, but decides to keep as polite as he can as he knocks thrice on the door, not trying to listen out for anything in particular but the shuffling of cloth is unmistakable. 

“Ahh, umm…wh-who is it?” Rinea hurriedly speaks out and Berkut gets a very vivid idea of what is happening on the other side of that door. 

“Berkut.” He snaps, his fists clenching as more panicked shuffling of sheets is heard and soft footsteps approach the door. 

The door opens to reveal Fernand, fully dressed and not unkempt in the slightest. A peer behind his shoulders shows that Rinea is sitting at her writing desk Berkut bought for her after she expressed interest in poetry and writing to her family back home. The confusion is enough for Berkut’s anger to slowly ebb away, but questions are still left unanswered. 

“It is most uncouth for a gentleman to be seen in a lady’s quarters in the evening dusk. Rumors might start to circulate.” Berkut tries to threaten but Fernand has such an easy smile on his face that he doubts it even reached his ears. 

“Rinea and I were simply continuing our conversation. The King soon dismissed the company after you left so as to not embarrass you further.” Fernand speaks calmly, Rinea seemingly catching wind of Berkut’s fuming expression, rising and retreating to the bathroom. With her gone, Berkut can finally add venom to his voice.

“What is so bloody lengthily that you can talk and laugh about all evening with her?!” Berkut whisper-yells. Fernand doesn’t drop his easy smile and simply replies:  
“You, milord.” 

Berkut is startled, but it barely registers before he becomes extremely self-concious again, the overwhelming urge to know what his subordinates have been saying about him almost too much to not ask about. 

“If you’re curious, why didn’t you join in the conversation instead of looking like you sucked on a lemon all dinner?” Fernand chimes teasingly, adopting a very similar grin to the one he has deep affection for on Rinea. That thought alone is enough to give a tint to his cheeks. 

“How dare you! You were the one that stole my conversation partner! I am meant to be courting her and you are not supposed to take away my future bride when you’re meant to be my friend!” Berkut allows a little more volume into his voice, but not much louder than Fernand’s normal speaking level.

“Future bride? I thought you were trying to get rid of her by the way you treat her milord. Clearly you haven’t been successfully courting her prior to this dinner or she may have actually wanted to talk to you instead of finding out about you from me instead. She very clearly expressed that she does not care for your power or feats of strength. She cares for your-”  
The punch was already delivered before Fernand could begin his elaboration. Berkut didn’t even hear the beginning of a new sentence since his anger overflowed at essentially being called useless. His ears had closed off and his mind was only focused on pumelling his charge into the ground.

He doesn’t get far in with his desire, Fernand faster than Berkut in his suit whereas the young Prince insisted on donning his amour for the evening. Fernand dances away from the enraged Berkut, light on his feet and easily dodging every powerful swing sent his way. 

”She cares for your grace in combat, not power. How trained you are skillfully, not delivering these kind of wild swings.” Fernand says softly as he catches Berkut’s fist. He clamps as hard as he can around the armoured hand to try and cease the fight, but Berkut is more weighted with the gauntlet and rips his hand from the clutch. He hears Fernand hiss in pain, clutching the hand Berkut’s was trapped by. 

Berkut doesn’t have anything to say to his friend’s words. His heart knows he is being irrational in all this, but his body and mind want violence, want to have a victory over something since he has only been defeated tonight. He launches at Fernand who is looking down at the ripped skin along his palms, not focusing on Berkut and the two of them end up knocked to the floor. 

Berkut wastes no time in gripping both of Fernand’s hands and pinning them with his own, either side of his head and sitting solidly on his abdomen, using his added weight to prevent Fernand twisting. He feels his charge struggle with his free legs but Berkut knows there isn’t anything they can do.

Which is why he is very confused when a solid, blunt force hits the back of his head. Not really feeling any pain, he turns to see Rinea holding one of her study books, a dissapointed, piercing glare directed at him. The rush of clarity the blow delivered came all too late as he realizes the action he had just done: fighting his friend because he was simply having a pleasant conversation…about him, sure, but there were so many better ways to have done this. 

Berkut releases Fernand and rises, reaching out for Reina, to apologise, to comfort her, to simply feel the warmth of her soft, milky skin. But needless to say, she shies away. Berkut could not be more in the wrong in this situation. He needs to apologize, say something to rectify the situation, take the blame-

“Lady Rinea, don’t scorn Lord Berkut for his violence…I said some things that were out of place, not considering how he might react to them. He…He only fights me to protect you since he believes I am taking you away from him…” Fernand interrupts the tension with his ever-soft voice, even Berkut turning to look down at him in shock. 

“But I…I want to be with you Fernand! I want to be taken by you! I like you because you’re such a gentleman!” Rinea suddenly blurts and it feels as if the room gathers the silence the statement made and forces it on Berkut’s gut. His stomach drops and his blood runs cold, he feels ill. He needs to leave the room. 

“Dear Rinea…do you forget the reason you were brought here?” Fernand asks as clear as day even though he is struggling to rise from lying on his back and his scrunched face clearly indicates he is in pain, perhaps not just from his palm. Rinea does not respond, Fernand releasing a small exhale as he uses his good hand to prop himself as he tries to stand.

“You are a potential suitor for my Master. He has deep affections for you which is why you have not been dismissed. Yet you defy his hospitality to harbour affections for his servant. You should be thankful that he has continued to love you, despite your disinterest.” Fernand explains, allowing Berkut to refocus, only processing about half of what he said but it seems like even now, Fernand is not angry and is even covering for the Prince’s idiotic mistakes.

“I care not for the reason I am here. Fate is the only commanding factor and I believe it was just that reason I met you Fernand! Why do you take that brute’s side when all he has done is serve to prove my point?” Rinea tries to hold some anger in her voice but her voice is that of an angel’s so there is little to indicate if she really is cross. Yet still the words sting without the tone, being told by the first girl that actually was your type that she has no interest is allowed to be painful, right?

Fernand sways as he tries to stand, holding his head with his good hand and cringing. And even though Berkut punched him less than five minutes ago, even though he is the reason Fernand is in this condition, the conditions have changed now. A lot has been made clear in this room and his anger has all but dissipated because of the truth of it all. If Rinea does not harbour any affection for him then perhaps he can cling to the only thing he has left that he can truly trust. 

Berkut lunges and collects Fernand in his wobbling form, pressing him solidly against himself, steadying the shivering body that he knows stands taller than his own but is currently curled into itself on Berkut’s shoulder. Berkut holds Fernand steady, Fernand trying to say something but Berkut lays a gentle finger to his lips before angling both bodies so Berkut can face Rinea with some manner of decorum. 

“Lady Rinea. I understand your situation; being brought here, likely against your will, to meet with a flawed individual who has yet to experience a hardship so direct that he has not yet matured into an adult. I talk of myself, though you are a wise young woman so you already understood that, which is one of the most powerful factors that draw me to you. Not only your clear complexion and immaculate appearance, but your wit and humour…I…if I were to love anyone, I would want to love someone like you, dear Rinea.” Berkut essentially confesses. Stony silence replies. Rinea has maintained her eye contact out of courtesy, but even Berkut can tell she is very uncomfortable. He drops his own gaze and turns them to Fernand who has somewhat recovered from the fight.

“You have my permission to leave and return home at any time you wish…I just ask that you…consider, my request.” Berkut finishes and wraps his arm around Fernand’s middle, carrying him along with his good hand slung around his shoulder. Berkut exits with a reserved ‘good evening’ before quietly clicking the door behind him. 

”You are stronger than I Milord…” Fernand mumbles as Berkut slowly walks him along to his own quarters which are closer than the retainer’s. 

“You denied her too, that brought me strength.” Berkut admits. Fernand releases a shaky huff of laughter and glances up to the Prince.

”It was easy to do so.” He states plainly as they reach Berkut’s door, Berkut careful to maneuver his arm in such a way that doesn’t jostle Fernand too much as he opens it.

“Oh?” Berkut asks, now growing confused as they enter the dark room.

“Similar to how she has no passion for you, I have no interest in her in the slightest but was simply trying to entertain her.” Fernand admits as Berkut settles him on his plush four-pillar bed. Berkut fumbles slightly to find the oil lamp on the side table but manages after a couple of attempts, the warm glow casts the room in a gentle light that Berkut does the mistake of looking to Fernand in. 

The man’s hair is now ablaze from catching the lantern light on his platinum strands, almost like a sunset is being reflected from a lake made from starlight. His pale cheeks come alive with a rosy tint that he wouldn’t expect to see in a flame and is further surprised when he takes in his friend’s highlighted soft cheekbones and straight jaw. His eyes catch the embers the most, looking the most stunning but Berkut can’t look at them for much longer since he realizes he has now stood enraptured by his friend’s face for over a minute.

“Milord?” He asks simply. It’s always so simple with Fernand. Always so open. Always so…

Berkut can’t continue these thoughts any longer. He has entertained how admittedly beautiful Fernand looks in the glow of a lantern, and how many of the reasons he loves Rinea for, undoubtedly apply to Fernand, and how Fernand has never once complained about how poorly and unfairly Berkut knows he treats him… but this must be rejection talking. 

He feels his body turn away from the man sitting on his bed, like he has done a couple of times before when the servants were taken ill and he had Fernand unstrap his armour plates. It wasn’t weird then, so why should it be now? What’s changed? Berkut growls, determined to crush these thoughts that are suddenly vastly more than friendship. After all, this could simply be out of spite, that finding his friend beautiful is a coincidence brought about by Rinea’s disinterest, surely. 

Berkut takes a single step back and raises an arm. Fernand’s hands gently touch the padded shirt under Berkut’s plates before wrapping his deft fingers around the clasp for the shoulder plate. 

“You’ll have to forgive my extra prodding Milord, the lighting is dim…” Berkut’s charge says quietly, a silence settling in the room for anyone but Berkut who is internally screaming at how much he wants to ask Fernand so many questions but how inappropriate a huge portion of them are. All Berkut can give in acknowledgment is a small grunt, any more and he doesn’t trust himself to stay composed. The touching doesn’t stop as Fernand takes to another plate and really only served to make Berkut even more confused. The delicate hands against him couldn’t possibly belong to a man trained ruthlessly in the sword and lance, more like the touch of Rinea than someone he would think is Fernand. 

Fernand works slowly and methodically, pacing over to the armour stand and dressing the mannequin in more and more of Berkut’s armour until all the plates have been fitted appropriately and Berkut stands in his padded shirt, undershirt and breeches. 

“Do the shirts and undergarments need washing?” He asks easily enough but to the struggling Berkut, that would mean he would be all but nude compared to his fully suited companion. A sense of fairness snakes into his thoughts and demands the prince that Fernand be brought down to his small clothes too. Berkut dismisses the thought and opens his lips to dissuade Fernand, but Fernand interrupts him.

“As you wish, Milord.” Berkut turns to see Fernand start discarding his clothes. Berkut isn’t even surprised at this point, his mind is a mess so of course anything that seems reasonable to ask for a sense of fairness is going to be said over something that he has to think about phrasing and consider the consequences of doing so. 

Berkut lifts a hand to try and stop him, not trusting his voice anymore but the helpless, needy look on Fernand’s illuminated face stops Berkut dead. What’s more is that Fernand is seemingly trying to reveal as much of his skin as possible without actually taking anything off; his jacket is slipped off his shoulders and bunching around his elbows, he un-buttons his shirt in a sensual way Berkut didn’t think were possible for a man to do and leaves the fabric to slide against his bare chest. Berkut hopes against any gods that might exist that the lighting is dim enough to hide the organ that is certainly reacting to this performance. 

Berkut’s face flushes deeper than the lantern flame when his charge starts on his trousers, definitely sliding his hand past the buttons to caress his leg on purpose. With a quick garbled excuse of needing to wash his face, the young prince retreats into the bathroom, wincing in pain as he collides with the door frame on the way in as he slams the door shut.

The bathroom is pitch dark with very little silver moonlight to help navigate around, but Berkut knows the room well enough to paw around and find the flannel and the sink. He drenches the flannel in cold water and lays it over his face, feeling his heart hammering in his chest and his breathing shallow and strained. The… other thing, that is straining has not subdued and Berkut tries to push down at his groin but a knock on the door stops him before he can even touch it.

In all other moments, the usual answer would be ‘enter’ but Berkut is trying to escape the only person that could be knocking, so that is the last thing he wants to say. Alternatively, what if Fernand suspects something is wrong by not letting him enter? Berkut is trying to play all this off calmly, he doesn’t know why Fernand is acting the way he is, perhaps in spite, perhaps as a joke, but Berkut has to accommodate for all possibilities. But Berkut still has an erection and that is very difficult to play off, what will Fernand think? How quick is he to jump to conclusions? With all these seconds he is taking up thinking, he is only making the situation more awkward.

“Enter.” Berkut says with as much authority that he can manage. The door opens, casting a very dim glow in the bathroom before the moonlight returns to be the only light source. Berkut doesn’t need to see to know that Fernand is only wearing his loincloth; hearing the pad of bare feet approach him and smooth, warm, bare arms slip under his shirts to settle around his middle. Berkut releases an involuntary gasp, not only because of the affectionate action but more the fact that a hand is wavering dangerously close to where he knows his bulge could be felt.

“Milord, if you wouldn’t mind, could you clean my wound?” Fernand asks, his voice far too close to Berkut’s ear but his body is trapped between not wanting to back up against an almost nude body and the sink. Berkut is still gripping the flannel he cooled his face with and gives a small noise of affirmation. 

“You’ll have to turn around then, Lord Berkut.” Fernand purrs. Berkut knows he didn’t imagine that. Fernand must be playing with him. Perhaps it’s revenge of some kind, perhaps it’s payment for the cover-up Fernand gave Berkut back in Rinea’s room. 

Though…

Surely if Fernand is going to be like that then, why can’t he? He can be playful and teasing with his own body, he’s strong enough -mentally and physically- to turn this around, after all, Berkut is the authority in this situation, despite standing shorter than his charge.

Berkut turns with a renewed confidence, pressing himself against Fernand’s body and trailing his fingers across the man’s chest, down his arms and to his hands. Thankfully, the moment of defiance has softened Berkut’s problem but Fernand remains annoyingly silent throughout his advances. Un-phased, Berkut gently takes each hand to feel out which has the wound and finds it is the right, which would make sense since he threw the punch with his own right hand…because Fernand is injured because of him. 

The moment of clarity that calmed his penis also brings a harsh light to how much he uses the man who still holds one arm around him loosely. Fernand is a broken man, just like everyone in the palace, a man that has a deep-set hatred for commoners and petty thieves since they were the ones that revolted against his parent’s command and killed everyone in the manor in a blazing hellfire. Luckily, Fernand escaped because a servant girl got a tip-off about the revolt, but he never has forgiven them. That servant girl could have saved his parents but just decided to save Fernand because he was small and still had a life to live. ‘So did my parents!’ Berkut remembers him saying once, the two of them having enough trust to tell stories of their childhood. Enough trust to have a full-on duel with each other. Enough trust to hunt for meat together. Enough trust to wash each other’s backs in a bath-house. Enough trust to share a tent when they march…

“Fernand I’m…I apologise.” Berkut says with a genuine falter in his voice that causes a wetness to douse his eyes, or perhaps it’s the other way round. Or perhaps it’s because of the situation as a whole. Berkut takes to cleansing out the wound with the damp flannel. Fat orbs pour from his eyes has he does so, catching the moonlight to melt unceremoniously into the flannel along with the little flakes of dried blood from Fernand’s palm.

“Berkut...” Fernand slips his hand from where he embraces Berkut and slides up to his shoulder, slowly brushing it up further to cup his lower skull, then up again to support the back of his head, as if testing if Berkut will deny the advances. A small tug is given and Berkut’s face grows closer to Fernand, as if he wasn’t close enough already. Berkut knows they are a similar height so some time soon he’s going to knock foreheads or noses with his closest friend-

A plush texture meets Berkut’s lips; soft and exactly like how he would expect a girl’s to feel like as a passing thought. The more pressing matter is the fact that Fernand is currently kissing him, not only stealing his first kiss, but implying something very important that Berkut needs to make sure he has got right. 

“Fernand, are you… toying with me?” He breaks the kiss with the question, still limply holding his…friend’s? hand and pressing the flannel into it. 

“Lord Berkut…never before in my life have I desired something as much as I desire you right this very moment. I understand you harbour affections for Rinea which is why I chose a darkened space to make my move…if necessary I can raise the pitch of my moans to better replicate her voice…” Fernand’s voice is shaking as fast as Berkut’s heart is beating, both of them wandering into unknown territory, despite how right it might feel to claim it. 

“Moans?!” Berkut half-whispers. Without hesitation, Fernand captures Berkut in a much steamier kiss that has him panting in a matter of moments until a high pitch whine emerges from Fernand’s direction. It then happens again when Berkut goes for another kiss. Berkut breaks it and brushes his cheek still damp with tears against’s Fernand’s own with a small nuzzle, his hand not holding the towel coming up to caress the opposite cheek. 

“Fernand I…” Berkut tries to convey something but no words seem to accurately summarise how he feels. He settles for remaining practical.  
“You don’t need to pretend to be a woman. You are enough.” He says, not raising his voice above a whisper because that’s all that is needed. Fernand stills for a moment before something is mutually agreed between them and they both meet each other for a kiss. This time, it feels as if his forearms are alight with prickles, but in a good way.  
Berkut drops the flannel and wraps both arms around Fernand’s neck, tugging him as close as possible, feeling his lower back get pressed against the edge of the sink. It’s enough to whimper in slight discomfort to but no more, that doesn’t stop Fernand parting and gazing at his partner. 

“Milord…?” Fernand asks, concern weaving into his tone. Berkut needs to dissipate that immediately. 

“Nothing it’s just…the vastly-more-comfortable bed isn’t far away, is all…” Berkut hints but nothing more needs to be said before he is kissed again and a leg comes round to gently press at Berkut’s calf, insisting movement. 

Berkut raises one leg hesitantly, letting out a grunt when Fernand lowers his hand at his neck to position Berkut’s leg so it is wrapped around his middle. A small tap on the thigh of Berkut’s other leg indicates Fernand’s intention and Berkut -if he trusts nothing else about this man (which is wildly false anyway)- trusts his strength. Berkut jumps a little and uses the momentum to hug Fernand’s middle with his legs and shoulders with his arms. Fernand supports Berkut’s ass as they dive into another kiss and he starts walking out of the shadowed bathroom. 

By the time Berkut has reached the bed, both of his shirts have been thrown off and once deposited, his breeches are swift to follow, both men in their underwear. Fernand is equally as fast to claim his position over the young Prince and initiates another round of crushing kisses, hot panting mixing between the two of them once more. This time though, wandering hands are added into the sensations along with the unmistakable outline of erect cocks frequently brush against each other, causing shaking moans to cut into the kisses. 

Berkut is actually starting to enjoy himself. After surpassing the issue of gender, he notices Fernand is everything that he would want in a partner, and even has the advantage of knowing him for years too. He can trust his closest friend not to spread this occasion and if possible, he would quite like a repeat of this night where he can take more time to feel out each and every dip in his charge’s body and loose himself to Fernand’s own meticulous touch. 

The kisses deepen and Berkut is just starting to think about if he could open his mouth to get a deeper connection when he suddenly feels incredibly cold and all touching has ceased. It takes a moment for Berkut to clock Fernand now sitting on the side of the bed, head nestled deep within his hands and his chest heaving for breath. Berkut crawls his way over to Fernand, gently brushing his fingers along the small of his back and resting his head on his partner’s shoulder.

“You stopped. I don’t appreciate that.” Berkut says in his dark tone only saved for the most serious commands. The order coupled with the lovey-dovey touch was meant to be a comical moment but Fernand doesn’t even break a smile.

“Fernand…?” Berkut asks, now starting to become concerned. He knows their trust runs deep so he shouldn’t have to push far to get the truth from him, it’s just a matter of if it’s appropriate or perhaps more of a personal issue…

“Berkut I…can’t continue this. I’m going to hurt you. You’re enjoying yourself too much…I’m…I’m tainting you. I’m being so selfish…I wanted you to be mine and now that I have you, I realise that there is no way I can keep you… you have to continue the bloodline and you can’t do that with me…if I end up making you love me then…what hope is there of the future?” Fernand spills, muttering and needlessly worrying. 

“Fernand, I can find some maid to impregnate and she can raise an heir. If that is all you are concerned about then I should punish you for stopping what I was enjoying.” Berkut threatens and Fernand turns silently to his master. Berkut grabs a bundle of Fernand’s hair and brings him in for a crushing kiss Berkut only sort-of meant to deliver, not expecting Fernand to trail to him. 

“Are you sure you want it to be me, Milord?” Fernand asks, breaking the kiss once more and Berkut actually starts to grow annoyed. As much as he know his charge is concerned about the territory they are straying into, Berkut is more than confident in his decision; that it’s not just some leftover, lust-filled gambit to leap to the other gender in the hopes of satisfying a carnal desire. No. It is much more than that when considering Fernand.

“I don’t know what to do, but I know that you will suffice as much as any woman that would take my fancy. Plus, you are less demanding than them, and I have known you for a long time now which means I already know everything about you.” Berkut explains and really hopes Fernand is just going to stop worrying. 

Luckily, Fernand seems to understand his sincerity behind the scathing tone and turns more fully towards his Prince. Berkut preens after finally swaying his charge, a smug grin on his face as they both fall backwards widthways across the bed and Berkut leads Fernand in the next round of heated kissing. Berkut begins to suspect Fernand is considering something with the way he becomes lacklustre in responding to the kisses, especially when his hands begin to roam down Berkut’s sides and tugs on the waistband of his linen small-clothes. 

Berkut lifts his pelvis to allow Fernand to completely strip him, not all that surprised when he accidentally brushes against Fernand’s groin and feels a particularly straining erection that should be dealt with. Berkut allows his curiosity to get the better of him, rolling Fernand onto his back and parting from his lips.

“Milord?” Fernand questions as Berkut’s legs slip off the side of the bed, the prince controlling his slide down his charge’s body and connecting a trail of kisses down his body with saliva. Fernand casts a glance down to Berkut who has ended up with his knees on the bed rug, in between his legs. Berkut eyes the erection straining under Fernand’s loin cloth, deciding to tease his partner just a little by mouthing the head with the cloth covering it. 

Berkut can feel the heat of Fernand’s dick through the cloth, even starting to taste a saltiness through the fabric as his charge becomes very vocal above him. Not wanting to keep Fernand waiting too much longer, Berkut gazes up at Fernand from under the sweep of his eyelashes, trying to seem as appealing as possible. 

“Do you want me to suck you off?” Berkut tries to ask sensually but ends up sounding incredibly disjointed when trying to say ‘suck’ with any manner of lustful charisma. His words make both of them blush and Berkut decides to not wait for an answer that could just as easily be a scathing remark or quip to remind Berkut of how distinctly un-sexy he is when it comes to talking about this kind of thing. 

Berkut lifts the loin cloth without further fanfare and takes the head of Fernand’s cock into his mouth, the taste amplified to the point of it becoming disgusting and when he tries to suck, he feels Fernand tense in pain. Trying to make it better for Fernand, he tries to take the cock deeper but ends up gagging and spitting all over Fernand’s crotch. Berkut comes off the cock with a gasp, trying to wipe the taste away and coughing to regain his breath. He flushes darkly at his total failure but a glance up to Fernand shows only a patient gaze. 

“Fret not Milord, this must be your first time so please do not feel disheartened.” Fernand gently cards his fingers through the Prince’s short, black strands of hair and collects a few at the back of his head. Momentary panic fills Berkut’s mind, adrenaline rushing into his blood, even more so when the grip seems to be forcing his face back towards Fernand’s cock. 

”I’ll help you this time. You’ll get the hang of it quickly.” Fernand explains swiftly, accompanied by a soothing hand. That is all that is needed for Berkut’s panic to dissipate, Fernand seems to understand perfectly when he is distressed and what the required action is. 

Berkut allows Fernand’s grounding grip on his hair to guide him back to take Fernand’s dick once more, the taste not having improved but Fernand now uses his free hand to take Berkut’s jaw and open his mouth wider.  
“Try not to graze it with your teeth” Fernand says, explaining his action. Berkut supposes that makes sense but quickly discovers that it is very difficult to suck without accidently using your teeth. Berkut decides to follow Fernand’s command rather than impose his limited knowledge of ‘sucking off’ to the situation, the grip on his hair now urging the Prince lower onto the dick. Berkut almost immediately feels like gagging again but the hand at the jaw now returns back to Berkut’s shoulder to gently comfort him. 

“Relax your throat, don’t focus on the feeling of gagging, suppress it with something else…” Fernand instructs and Berkut tries to follow but the feeling of something in your mouth that is too big for it, is incredibly distracting and there isn’t much else Berkut can think about. He can’t voice this issue either and so all he can do is look up to Fernand, which apparently was a mistake. 

Fernand’s eyes grow wide and the grip on Berkut’s hair suddenly turns painful as Fernand’s cock suddenly starts thrusting into Berkut’s mouth, momentarily cutting off his breathing before withdrawing and repeating, the whole time Berkut’s reflex to gag is almost overwhelming. He squints his eyes shut and takes Fernand’s actions as they come, tears brimming in his eyes from suppressing his gag reflex. 

Soon enough, a sudden warm, horrible tasting liquid is shot down Berkut’s throat and Fernand pulls his cock from Berkut’s mouth as if he was meant to do that before he released. Berkut understands he has just swallowed cum, he knows that much, but he is more concerned about what drove Fernand to suddenly become so violent and quite frankly: scary.

“Spit it out Berkut, please. I’m so, so sorry I just saw your face and your eyes and your lips taking my dick and I just-” Fernand stops and withdraws all holds on Berkut, hiding his face in his hands. His question is answered and Berkut expected as much. He crawls on top of Fernand and takes a hold of his wrists, forcing them from his face which Fernand responds to with an sudden yelp. Berkut captures Fernand’s lips, perhaps secretly wishing for his partner to get a taste of his own cum, but really just expressing his feelings for the man. 

“I forgive you, Fernand.” Berkut announces, no room for negotiation. 

His charge averts his eyes from Berkut’s gaze, but the Prince will ensure that only Fernand will ever look at him in this new way he has discovered. A way that extends beyond cognitive meaning and can only be seen in actions. A kind of trust that runs much deeper than simply acquiring an heir.

**Author's Note:**

> "Just a BJ?!" I hear you cry. 
> 
> Yes. But it doesn't have to be that way I guess. These two are very sweet together and I definitely feel I didn't stay true to Berkut's desperate anger enough. 
> 
> I'd say this calls for another fic where there isn't so much going on with angst and love triangles and stuff so uhh, yeah! More Ferkut (Bernand??(wtf is this ship???)) maybe?


End file.
